


the heart is hard to translate, it has a language of its own

by nolightss



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Deaf Character, M/M, POV Second Person, Past Abuse, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:33:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nolightss/pseuds/nolightss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You were seven when the truck collided with the side of your father’s car, killing him and throwing you against the headrest, and the last thing you remember hearing is sirens off in the distance. </p><p>You were fourteen when the words made their appearance, "Hey, you dropped this" in perfect helvetica down your side.</p><p>High School AU: Specs is Deaf</p>
            </blockquote>





	the heart is hard to translate, it has a language of its own

**Author's Note:**

> You might recognize this, It was originally uploaded as a much shorter fic, but I've expanded and edited it since.
> 
> Title from All This and Heaven Too by Florence + the Machine.

You were seven when the truck collided with the side of your father’s car, killing him and throwing you against the headrest, and the last thing you remember hearing is sirens off in the distance. 

_Severe Head Trauma,_ they’d told you, and you didn’t really understand the gravity of the statement back then, you had just assumed it would all get better eventually. In time your fate became clear, and you finished the course on signing in two months. Your mother's job needed her all across the country, and you were really just along for the ride, and spent time at four different schools by the time you hit fourteen. 

The words first made their appearance six years after the crash.

"Hey, you dropped this" in perfect helvetica down your side, and when you’d woken to it, you were surprised. There was nothing on your skin for fourteen years, and at this point, you almost preferred it that way. It's not like you'd ever hear the words anyway.

Two weeks later, you started a new school. Right in the middle of January, just when people are used to each other, just when the school stops being big and scary and is just a school, and people don’t have time to bump into new kids in the hall. 

Two weeks after that, two weeks after you gave up on asking teachers to sign for you and just resorted to lip reading, and two weeks after you decided that lunch alone wasn’t anything new, you felt a tap on your shoulder.

You turned, trying not to block the crowded hallway, to a boy with a mop of black hair, freckles scattered across his nose and a book in his outstretched hand.

He spoke too quickly for you to catch, but you realized the book was yours and you took it, nodding and smiling quickly before adjusting your glasses and merging again with the hallway traffic.

Five minutes later, in a science class that you really should’ve been paying attention to, you realized.

"Hey, you dropped this."

And suddenly, your face feels hot and you can barely pay attention to the teacher for the rest of the lesson.

—

The boy sits down next to you at lunch several days later, dropping his backpack onto the linoleum floor of the corner you claimed. He sat cross-legged in front of you, speaking almost too fast, though you think you may have caught an apology in there somewhere.

He looks at you, expectant look on his face and you’re at a loss. You shrug, gesture vaguely at the side of your head and his expression changes to one of dumbfounded realization.

He reaches into his backpack, pulling out a notebook and scrawls something.

_sorry about bothering you the other day. didn’t mean to scare you!_

You smile as you read it, and write back,

_it’s okay! thanks for telling me. not many people do._

He smiles at that, and shrugs.

_what’s your name? i don’t want to keep calling you ‘specs’ in my head._

A laugh escapes your lips.

_it’s matt. but specs works too, if you want._

He twirls the pen in his fingers before writing back.

_alright, specs. i’m romeo._

You pause, laying the paper down on the tile in front of you and reach for his hands. He holds his palms out and you take his first two fingers, crossing them for R, then a circle for O. Then a fist, pressing his thumb in between the last two for M, a fist with the thumb curled under for E, and another circle for O. You look up at him and he’s smiling so big, you think his face might split.

Romeo sits back, determination written across his face, and attempts to relay the signs. He does it well, albeit slowly, and you spell “specs” back to him.

He takes your hand in his then, and scrawls a phone number on your wrist, and you can’t help the butterflies rising in your throat.

He pauses, points at nothing and mouths “the bell,” and you nod. As you gather your things, he taps your shoulder and waves before disappearing into the crowd.

—

Romeo joins you again for lunch the next day, a stack of books under his arm and a determined look on his face.

Setting them down, you see titles like “ASL for beginners” and “How to Sign” and you cant help but blush.

_what’s with the face?_

He slides a paper toward you, and you write back almost frantically.

_i’ve never had a friend learn to sign for me before?_

He gives you a look, a mix of pity and surprise and you wave him off, opting to pay more attention to your sandwich.

You both spend lunch with your noses in books, Romeo signing things to you occasionally and you trying to finish the homework due the next period.

—

The next monday, Romeo sits down in front of you as usual, screws up his face with concentration and signs slowly.

_Will you go out with me?_

You sit, dumbfounded for a minute, unsure if you were seeing things or not.

A minute passes, and you realize you should probably respond in some way.

So you kiss him.

You lean forward, one hand on his cheek and the other on the floor beside him and man, he’s a good kisser, and when you finally break away, he still has a question mark etched into his features.

You nod frantically, still leaning over him and he breaks into a grin, and you kiss that grin, that perfect, unstoppable smile until he's practically dragging you to class.

—

Your relationship flourishes and falls into a rhythm of signs, touches and late nights studying in your empty house. Your mother, busy with work, left the house in your care on many occasions into the dead of night. 

If you're honest with yourself, though, you’re not sure when Romeo’s study sessions in your kitchen became overnight stays, but you let it happen, letting the tutoring turn to hand holding across the table and the goodbye hugs turn to spooning until the morning. He's probably doing better in Geography now, anyway. 

At 8:00, he turns to you, and signs as he always does.

_Mind if I stay over?_

_Of course I don't._

He drags you into bed around 10, spewing something about an early alarm clock, and you know better, but you still follow him into your room, watching him get comfortable in your bedsheets.

 _At this point, you should have your own room here,_ you sign, letting a smile creep into your expressions.

 _And miss sleeping next to you every night? No way._

He laughs at his own words and takes your hand, pulling you onto the mattress and rolling to face you. You lie, hands and feet tangled with his for what feels like forever. You take the time to study his face in the dim light, the slopes and shadows across closed eyes and a serene smile.

You close your eyes and breathe, because if there's any other time to do this, it's now. You clear your throat hesitantly, and Romeo's eyes snap open, surprised at the sound. 

It feels wrong, to open your mouth and not hear a sound, only feel it sliding down your throat for the first time in so many years, and you push the word out anyway.

He looks at you like you've just given him the world, and maybe you have, because he turns around and points to the back of his neck. You pull the collar of the shirt down and look at the letters, neatly printed in your own handwriting.

"Romeo?"

You lean in and kiss him like the world is ending, your hands pressed against his cheeks and his pressed on top of yours and you can feel your heart leaping into your throat with every breath.

 _You okay?_ he signs, studying your flushed face.

 _Better than ever,_ you reply.

—

The bruise was peaking out above the towel Romeo held clutched to his chest, yellowing purple creeping down his collarbone and you didn't mean to see it, you'd only bumped into Romeo coming out of the shower. Your hands fly up on instinct, about to sign something you hadn't decided on yet, but you see his eyes flick down to himself and then back to you in that split second and the fear in his eyes is enough to stop you from signing anything.

He moves past you quickly, shuffling his clothes around and looking for a pair of boxers, and you pause before following, before seeing the array of bruises and scars painting Romeo's skin. 

You touch his shoulder hesitantly and he flinches, shrinking into himself at the touch. The movement is so unlike him that you're startled, and you turn him to face you, signing slowing.

_Who?_

he swallows and avoids your eyes.

_My father._

Your expression falls, and you wonder how you didn't realize, why you didn't make the connection to all the nights spent in your bed, how you didn't see anything at all.

_I'm so sorry. For not realizing sooner._

Romeo shakes his head and you wrap your arms around him, pulling him into your chest and letting the warmth spread over him. He lets himself go then, lets the tears soak your shirt and you keep holding on, pressing your nose into his hair and feeling the words fall from your lips again and again and again.

 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

It feels like hours later when he pulls away, rubbing his eyes and nodding to himself.

_Thank you._

You nod.

 _stay as long as you need. I mean it._

You punctuate the sentence with a kiss to his forehead, and he melts back into you at the touch.

—

You find yourself ending a lot of sentences with a kiss, pressed casually to his fingers or blissfully to his forehead. You find that, at times, it says more than your fingers ever did, so you keep at it, hoping that the press of lips to skin will convey exactly how much he means to you.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a compilation of fics I've posted [on tumblr.](http://crutchies.tumblr.com/tagged/it-talks-in-tongues-and-quiet-sighs)
> 
> Thanks to [Jojo](http://officialspecs.tumblr.com) for giving me this idea in the first place.
> 
> Thanks to [Mark](http://cotthauser.tumblr.com)for his incredible Romeo headcanons and for helping me bounce around ideas.


End file.
